The Big Kahuna (Fox and O'Hare #6)(91)

I took the paper slips from him. “I need your license, too.”

“Like I said, man. I’ll get that muffler looked at right away.”

“License.”

“I don’t have it on me right now.”

“What’s your date of birth?”

A.J. leaned back in his seat and stared at the road. He said something between his teeth that I didn’t catch. A complaint or a curse. The jolt of satisfaction I’d gotten after pulling him over had already vanished, and all I could feel now was the pounding on my temples and along my brows. I wanted to write him a ticket as quickly as possible so I could go get my coffee. “What was that?” I asked.

“March 8, 1985.”

“All right. Wait here,” I said. I went back to the cruiser, cranked up the air conditioning, and drank from the lukewarm water bottle that was wedged in the cup holder. A.J. was smoking a cigarette, which made me crave one, too, but I’d left my pack in my locker at work. I propped the registration and insurance against my laptop monitor and typed in the birth date A.J. had given me. No records. My hangover had dulled my thinking, and it took me a minute to realize that I’d entered his nickname into the computer system. But A.J.’s legal name was Anderson. I typed that instead and the license immediately came up. SUSPENDED. Nine months ago. DUI. It had to have been a major accident or a second offense for the suspension to be as long as it was. Did he have a substance abuse problem? I wouldn’t have guessed it. He always seemed like he had his act together. Or maybe he just managed to avoid getting caught. Well, not this time. I picked up the water bottle again, but found it empty. My tongue felt as dry and heavy as a brick. I stepped out of the cruiser into the blazing heat. Far ahead, the midday sun had turned the horizon into a liquid haze. I tried to follow protocol—I reminded A.J. why he’d been pulled over, told him what the license check revealed, why he was now under arrest—but from the first, A.J. had to make things difficult. “Come on, man,” he said. “It’s just a muffler.”

“Step out of the vehicle. Move slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

“I can get it fixed today. Come on.”

“Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

“My suspension is up in two weeks. Two weeks, Gorecki.”

I read him his rights and cuffed him. “Spread your legs, I have to pat you down.”

“How am I going to tell my wife about this? She’s been waiting for me to get my license back, and now this. It’s not fair, Gorecki.”

“Do you have anything in your truck I should know about? Drugs? Weapons?”

“No. Why are you doing this to me?”

“I’m just doing my job.”

“Fuck off, Jabba—”

I yanked on his cuffs so hard that the word dissolved into a cry of pain, then dragged him to the cruiser and shoved him into the backseat. A car slowed as it drove past, the driver craning his neck for a good look. At the tire shop down the road, an inflatable sky dancer waved his orange arms maniacally. I took a deep breath. Don’t let him get to you, I told myself. Stay calm. I got into the driver’s seat and called my dispatcher to ask for a tow truck. The cruiser had been idling a while, and now it reeked of sweat and whatever the hell the officer who’d driven it the day before had been eating. I shifted in my seat, tried to find a comfortable position, but the weight of my bulletproof vest and the angle of my belt made it impossible. My head was pounding.

By the time we got to the jail, A.J. had calmed down, though he still wasn’t cooperative. Three times he asked for his phone call, and Sergeant Lomeli told him they’d get to it as soon as they were done. “You can’t get bailed until you get booked, and you can’t get booked until we finish here, understand?”

A.J. sniffed.

“Are you on any medications?” I asked.

“I need my inhaler. I got one in the glove compartment, but you towed my truck.”

“We’ll get you an inhaler,” I said. “Any other tats beside the one on your arm?”

“Got one on my back and one on my right shoulder.”

“Take off your shirt.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think? I have to check, motherfucker.”

A.J. took off his shirt. In high school, he had been a gangly kid, but now his shoulders were broad, his biceps defined, and his waist as narrow as a swimmer’s, a look I couldn’t have achieved no matter how much I worked out. Not that I worked out much these days, anyway. On A.J.’s back was an elaborate vine, a full-color tat that must have taken several sessions under the needle to complete, but it was the simpler design on the shoulder that made me pause. “What’s this?”

“It’s a cross.”

“Not just any cross. It’s Celtic. Why’d you get it?”

“Because I’m a Christian, asshole. Or is that against the law now?”

“Guess what?” Lomeli said from behind the counter. “Phone lines just went down.”

Never get on Lomeli’s bad side was a lesson that meth heads, prostitutes, petty thieves, and other regulars at the jail knew by heart. It was time for A.J. to learn it, too. Now he’d have to wait until the end of the day to place his call.

I signed off on the paperwork and left, walking across the lot to the police station to get some Tylenol from my desk. Cheerful voices rose from the common area. Fran, my favorite dispatcher, was about to retire and someone had put together a party for her. When I came forward to say hello, my voice was weak, as though it came from somewhere far away. I drank two glasses of lemonade before moving to the buffet, where I piled my plate with lasagna and grilled zucchini and breaded cheese sticks. That first plate I ate standing, barely listening to the chatter around me. After I filled a second plate, I looked around the room and noticed Murphy talking to Coleman, leaning very close to her, as if he were sharing juicy office gossip or confiding a secret. Coleman saw me watching, sat up straighter, and waved me over.